


colours you thought were kings

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Illness, Kidney failure, M/M, alternative universe, aspiring gymnast!eggy, civilian!harry hart, dialysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man is there again today.</p><p>He was there yesterday, and the day before that. Eggsy wouldn’t know if he was there any other time prior to his noticing the man's presence because on the day before yesterday, he was in hospital after collapsing in agony on the mats during Nationals and being told after years of chronic back pain, near-constant exhaustion, surgeries to remove the more troublesome cysts, and the whole pissing blood business, his kidneys were finally giving up the ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	colours you thought were kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkcherryblossomcats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcherryblossomcats/gifts).



> I hope you like it!
> 
> For the following prompt:
> 
> Eggsy has a chronic illness that forces him to be hospitalized for long periods of time. One day, when he is looking out the window, he spots Harry reading on a bench in the yard and he wonders if he is a new staff or another patient in the hospital. Cue Eggsy from his hospital room's window.

The man is there again today.

He was there yesterday, and the day before that. Eggsy wouldn’t know if he was there any other time prior to his noticing the man's presence because on the day before yesterday, he was in hospital after collapsing in agony on the mats during Nationals and being told after years of chronic back pain, near-constant exhaustion, surgeries to remove the more troublesome cysts, and the whole pissing blood business, his kidneys were finally giving up the ghost.

“You’ll be placed on the transplant list for a new kidney,” the doctor had told him and his mum. “In the meantime, we’ll start you on haemodialysis immediately for five times a week.”

What the doctor doesn’t tell him is that each dialysis session lasts five hours. Five hours a day, five days a week. Twenty-five hours each week of his life spent in this little room with the only thing to look at being the inspirational poster of the kitten hanging from a tree limb while a large, noisy machine pulls the toxic blood from his veins, cleans it, and pumps it back into him because his body is no longer up to the task. Twenty-five hours a week, plus the two hours it takes to get to and from the clinic, the time it takes waiting for his name to be called, and then getting hooked up to the machine itself, which ends up making it closer to forty. Forty hours a week until his number comes up and a viable kidney becomes available. It’s a full time job, being this sick.

And yet, ironically, he’s got a lot of time on his hands.

With not much to look at within the room itself, just cheap, scuffed laminated tiles and cupboards and sickly mint green painted walls that could use a fresh coat, he’s taken to looking out the window instead, but his room only overlooks the side carpark that, other than the few cars of some of the staff, is mostly featureless save for a single rusting bench, and on that bench, every day thus far, has been the man.

He’s quite a bit older than Eggsy, probably somewhere in his late forties to early fifties. He wears an expensive looking suit and thick rimmed glasses and spends his time sitting on that bench filling out the daily crossword puzzle. In pen, no less. He always drapes one long leg over the other in the most elegantly casual manner. He looks perfectly at ease with where he is, and he’s easily the most sophisticated thing to grace this block within at least five kilometres.

But Eggsy doesn’t know much more than that. He doesn’t know why the man is there day after day or who he is. Perhaps he works at the clinic, though he’s dressed too posh for that. Perhaps he’s a patient, though again, his manner of dress ought to mean he’d have the funds to go somewhere more upscale.

The man is always there before Eggsy gets into the room and leaves between ten minutes to half an hour into his session, folding up his paper and tucking it under his arm before rising to walk out of view. Eggsy can’t see where the man goes from his reclined position, no matter how hard he cranes his neck trying. Just another mystery.

So while the machines whoosh in his ears and he fights the low levels of nausea these sessions always induce—more so when he thinks too much about what is happening—Eggsy makes up stories about the man: where he came from, what he does for a living, and most important of all, why he’s here now. Perhaps he’s a good Samaritan doctor donating a few hours a week at some hole-in-the-wall outpost among the commoners when he isn’t working at his private practise in the City. Perhaps he’s a daywalking vampire who lurks about the poorer neighbourhoods to steal blood because it’s less likely to be reported. Perhaps he’s a secret agent in need of keeping a low profile.

There’s not much lower than being here, Eggsy reckons.

 

_____

 

“Let me know if you need anything else, love,” the nurse says as she adjusts the tubes so they don’t pull at his neck so much. The line’s just a short term measure, he’s been told, until he can get an AV fistula put in his arm. It requires surgery, and then over a month to heal up before it can even be used. That over a month from now he will still be coming to this little room isn’t something he can bear thinking about.

“Ice?” he asks hopefully.

It’s the eyes, his mum once said to him. No one can resist when he uses them for evil. The only reason why she can say no to him now is because she’s spent years changing his nappies and that would disenchant anyone.

“Just a little bit,” the nurse relents. “Not too much, though.”

When she leaves, his gaze automatically travels to the window, and there he is, his favourite gentleman. He’s wearing a dark grey suit this time, not quite black, though Eggsy can’t pretend to be much more knowledgeable about posh men’s fashion than that. His tie is black with some sort of pattern that he can’t quite discern from this distance. There’s a pinched line between his brows. His pen taps across the edge of his paper like he’s stuck on a clue.

And then the man does something unexpected.

He looks up and meets Eggsy’s eyes.

Startled, Eggsy quickly turns his head, his face growing hot at being caught out. He concentrates hard on the kitten poster— _Just hang in there!_ —until his pulse finally returns to a semblance of normal. Then he dares to glance back at the man again.

The man is still looking at him.

Eggsy awkwardly raises a hand and gives him a short little salute before abruptly dropping his hand because he doesn’t know why the fuck he just did that.

But the man only gives him a small little wave in return, and on his lips, there’s an equally small and bemused smile.

It brightens Eggsy up, just seeing that. Silly, he knows, but for one heart-stopping moment, there is a connection. It makes him feel good.

He’s interrupted from his strange little stare down when the nurse returns with a cup containing only a scant few chips of ice. Still, he’d take anything he could to relieve the constant ache of his parched throat for any span of time.

When he glances back at the window, the man is gone.

 

_____

 

“You could bring some books,” his mum suggests at dinner. She and Daisy are, however, wearing most of it thanks to his little sister being in a right state tonight, smacking her hands against her tray and bouncing in her seat. “Your headphones. You don’t just gotta sit there, babe. I know how broody you get.”

He half-heartedly pushes around the bland, unseasoned food on his plate: steamed cauliflower, boiled chicken breast, and some sort of bagged salad mix that must be left undressed. He feels bad about it. He always seems to be hungry except when it comes time to actually eat, and then even Daisy’s baby mush looks more appealing. All the fresh ingredients are costing his mum an arm and a leg, but Eggsy can’t eat anything that comes from a tin or a box, not anymore.

If... _when_...he gets past this, he’ll never take for granted eating a regularly seasoned meal again. The sudden deprivation has taken his thoughts to extreme lengths. The other day, he saw a french fry on the pavement outside a McDonald’s and he’ll never admit to anyone how tempted he was to pick it up and eat it.

Over Daisy’s continuous high-pitched, occasionally shrill, squealing, he considers his mum’s words as he takes a small sip of his carefully measured out water, trying to stretch it out and savour what little fluids he’s allowed. “Could I get the paper from the library?”

His mum blinks at his request, but to her credit, she takes him seriously. “Don’t think they let you take out today’s—oi, Daisy, pipe down a bit, will you? What’s gotten into you?—Maybe yesterday’s though.”

Bless his mum. She’s not afraid of cashing in his illness card to get what she wants. It’s perhaps the only highlight of this whole ordeal. Once the librarians on staff hear his sad sob story and current condition, all coming from a poor, widowed mum who is also trying to raise a toddler, they happily throw a stack of last week’s old papers at Michelle and tell her she can come back the next week for more.

 

_____

 

The man is there again. When Eggsy is settled in for the long haul, he looks out the window and meets the man’s gaze, already waiting for him. He offers him a smile and a far less awkward wave, one confident cut of his hand through the air, like they’re old acquaintances now.

The man dutifully waves back, Eggsy likes to think it, too, is a bit more affectionately dealt, and it’s enough.

Eggsy looks down at the paper he’s brought with him, flipped to the blank crossword on the back. It’s a few days old. The man’s probably already long since completed it, but when Eggsy goes to read the clues, he’s stumped on the first one. He’s not entirely stupid, he knows, but his education has been spotty at best and not the least because he hadn't exactly been motivated to take advantage of the meagre learnings his school could provide. At least the pop culture clues, though, are easy enough, and it’s those he fills out first.

He’s filled out maybe a quarter of the whole thing before he chances another look, only mildly disappointed when no one is there.

 

_____

 

“Could you open the window?” Eggsy asks the nurse after she inserts the needles into his line and starts the machine up. “It’s a nice day. I could do for some fresh air.”

The nurse complies with his request before she leaves. It’s not really all that fresh out, Eggsy would admit, but the ambient sounds from outside provide something of a change from his usual noisy mechanical companion.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the familiar shape of the man on the bench, but doesn’t look up, focusing instead on the paper in his lap, gamely picking off the easiest hints first and then frowning as the minutes tick by and the bloody kitten poster seems to mock him. _Just hang in there!_

“I can’t help but wonder if this was done for me.”

Eggsy looks up and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees the man standing so close to the window, leaning his hip against the sill.

It’s like the fuzzy image he’s had of the man has now been brought into sharp, clear relief. This close, Eggsy can pick out more details, like how his hair is carefully and neatly combed to the side and there’s a faint vein of grey streaked through its mostly light brown colour. He’s got a prominent nose and defined square jaw, and both might have been sharper when he was younger. Behind his glasses, which draw so much attention from his features, his eyes are a warm brown, pleasant. His whole face is, really, in a way that maybe wouldn’t be readily apparent, but draws Eggsy in the longer he looks.

“Maybe it is,” Eggsy answers, biting his chapped lower lip, remembering himself. “It’s just that I’ve seen you sitting on that bench alone every day I’ve been here. And I’ve got to sit in here alone, so I thought, why not have some company before you go off to do...whatever it is you do?”

The man is quiet as he considers the proposition, and he must find it agreeable because he finally asks, “What’s your name?”

“Eggsy Unwin. Yours?”

“My name is Harry Hart,” the man says, moving to half sit on the ledge as he settles in for some time yet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eggsy Unwin.”

“Hello, Harry,” Eggsy says, unable to keep from smiling as he silently adds this detail to all the others he’s been collecting. The gentleman in the suit on the bench with the crossword. Harry Hart. A pleasant name to match a pleasant face. “So....”

“So I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing sitting out on that bench every day.”

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice, yeah.”

Harry hums. “My friend is a doctor at this clinic. His schedule can be a bit erratic depending on how backed up the patients are, but we try to have lunch together when I’m in town.”

“Do you not live in London?” Eggsy asks, trying valiantly to battle the sinking feeling in his chest. The prospect that Harry doesn’t is ultimately...disappointing.

“I try to, but lately work has been determined to keep me away more often than not,” Harry says, and off Eggsy’s questioning glance, explains, “I’m a tailor. My shop has several overseas clients to whom I am frequently assigned.”

It explains the suits, maybe even the worldly, cultured air seemingly imbued in every gesture and word that makes Harry the most fascinating person he's met in a long time. “Must be nice sometimes, right? I always wanted to travel, but furthest I’ve ever been was Brum.” It had been for another meet, gymnastics serving as his gateway to the rest of England, and, he had hoped, the world. Now, however, he wasn't be going very far anytime soon.

“It does have its moments,” Harry agrees. “But it can be exhausting when done in excess, sometimes lonely.”

“Well, you don’t gotta go very far to be lonely,” Eggsy says and then wants to smack himself in the face for sounding so morose. He recovers, giving Harry an easy grin. “So you can thank me for saving you from such a dire spot today.”

“Yes, thank you, Eggsy for that save,” Harry says drolly, before adding in a softer, more sincere tone that is tapered with a faintly curious smile, “and the pleasant company.” His attention is drawn, however, to something that Eggsy can’t see. “I do believe, though, my friend is now waiting on me for a change.”

Eggsy is tempted to petulantly say, _Let them wait_ , but in the end, he takes the high road as the better part of valour. “Enjoy your lunch. Would I be seeing you tomorrow, same time, same place?”

An expression briefly flickers across Harry’s face, something surprised and then shyly pleased. “If I haven’t bored you terribly, then yes, I think you very well may,” Harry says before slowly backing away from the window, but not before pausing to pop his head back in. “Oh, and Eggsy? One across. I believe the word you’re looking for is _auspicious_.”

Eggsy looks down at his crossword. Slowly, a smile grows upon his lips and by the time he’s glancing back up at Harry, he’s full on grinning like a loon.

_1a. Fortuitous occasion._

 

_____

 

“How does a doctor and a tailor become friends anyway?” Eggsy asks Harry the next time they convene at Eggsy’s clinic window. Despite the fact that Harry is probably the most proprietous, upstanding gentleman Eggsy would likely probably ever meet, the secret nature of these brief meetings feels deliciously illicit, albeit however low the stakes actually are.

“A doctor and a tailor become friends when that tailor used to be a doctor as well,” Harry answers with a teasing glint in his eye, like he knows he’s going to capture Eggsy’s interest.

And, of course, he does. In full. “Fuck me, really? You were a doctor?”

“We were both in the RAMC, and before that, we had been at school together.”

“If you knew your doctor mate from school, he must have gone somewhere posh as well, yeah? So why ain’t he working somewhere better than...well, this shit hole?” Eggsy asks. “He could be making more money than working in a clinic for us common types.”

“Because believe it or not, Eggsy,” Harry replies, “Even ‘common types’ get sick and need to see doctors. And, in fact, Merlin prefers to work here and has turned down more prestigious positions at higher profile institutions to do so. He claims he can’t stand rich toffs who are too used to getting everything they want.”

Eggsy still can’t get over the fact that there is an overqualified doctor who works here, that, moreover, chooses to work here, and goes by the name _Merlin_ on top of it all. He still hasn’t met the bloke yet, but already feels like he knows him thanks to Harry’s detailed answers to all his questions. He already likes him quite a bit.

There are, however, now more pressing matters to explore. “So, you’ve, like, shot a gun? At people?”

“Not very often, but there were moments when, yes, I was required to discharge my weapon.”

These newfound revelations force Eggsy to reconfigure his whole view of Harry. He’s no longer just a fashionable gentleman tailor. He’s a fashionable gentleman tailor doctor _badass_. “If you was a doctor before, why are you a tailor now?”

“I grew...tired of the lifestyle, among other things,” Harry says, searching for and finding something to adjust in his already perfect shirt cuffs. “A friend of the family owns the shop in which I am now employed. When I expressed a desire for a career change, he offered to train me in the art. I knew a little bit about the tailoring business from when I was younger and spent a good amount of my time there, so I had a good foundation upon which to build.”

Something doesn’t quite sit right about that explanation, like the puzzle pieces don't quite seamlessly snap together, but Eggsy doesn’t press the issue. He looks forward to these secret meetings because they cheer him up, and by that mark, some illusions must remain. Besides, there is already so much Harry presents him with, from his diverse skill set to his trove of almost arbitrary bits of knowledge he’s gleaned either by his voracious reading habits or simply his life experiences, that Eggsy only feels like he’s barely scratching the surface of this man he's met.

So he just grins at Harry and slyly says, “Bet your stitches is real tight.”

And Harry plays along, dryly replying, “I knew that medical degree was good for something.”

 

_____

 

“Thirteen down. Vampiric family, glitters by...er, daylight? Six letters.”

“Cullen.”

It’s silent for a few beats as Harry's pen scratches against the newsprint. When Eggsy looks over at him, Harry is staring at the letters in befuddlement. “How do you even know that? What even _is_ that?”

He's determined not to flush. “ _That’s_ a rabbit hole you don’t wanna go down, mate.” When Harry looks up at him, he adds, “What? I’ve got a mum, alright? She made me go see all them films with her.”

 

_____

 

The next time they meet, Harry’s got a thick, massive book with him that he props up on the window sill, and for a moment Eggsy thinks he’s gone and broken out the family photos.

“What’s this then?” Eggsy asks.

“This is a book of fabric samples.” With some effort, Harry hoists the book up and opens it for Eggsy so he can see. Instead of lines of text or even illustrations, each page of the book is stabled with several small square patches of fabric. “Part of my job is to put together palettes for my clients. From these, an entire wardrobe can be cultivated.”

“Can barely see it from here,” Eggsy says. “You really ought to just come in.”

Harry frowns. “Is that even allowed?”

“Dunno, but who’s gonna know? ‘Sides, window’s big enough.” Eggsy shrugs and has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “You should just like...get a leg over.”

Harry eyes both him and the window a healthy dose of scepticism, but Eggsy’s just gazes back at him expectantly. Finally, Harry sighs, mutters something suspiciously like, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and throws one stupidly long leg through the window until he’s straddling the sill.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t occur to either of them until it’s too late that the window is too narrow for Harry to gracefully swing his other leg up in the same manner. The result is that Harry curses as he has to perform a series of comical hops on one foot in order to gain enough clearance for his other leg, and if that weren’t enough, he collides with a rolling table, sending its tray of equipment crashing to the floor.

They both freeze, waiting to see if they’ll be caught, but as is typical for poorly-staffed and underfunded little clinics, no one comes rushing in to see what’s happened.

“Well, that was eventful,” Harry says, smoothing down his suit like he’s trying to piece back together his dignity.

Eggsy bites down on his lower lip hard until the urge to break out into a fit of laughter passes. “I feel like I’m a teenage girl who’s trying to sneak her bloke up into her bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry says as he moves closer to Eggsy’s cot. He’s even taller than Eggsy thought, and about 80% of him is legs, perfectly emphasised by the subtle pinstripe in his suit. There's an immediate heavier gravity around him that keeps Eggsy's gaze glued to him, unable to break free. “I liked blokes and no one questioned two boys sharing a room or even a bed together. At least back in those days.”

Eggsy feels his heart stutter in his chest. It’s an answer to a question never asked, but the significance of it does not go wholly unrecognised by either party. A new weight that seems to hinge on his next action. It feels momentous.

“You gonna sit?” Eggsy asks, and for lack of many options, indicates the edge of his bed.

Harry closes the final distance between and sits down next to Eggsy, the closest to he’s ever been. With this proximity, Eggsy can smell him, something light and green that reminds him of summer grass just after the rain. Harry's eyes are even warmer now that Eggsy has the chance to see them more clearly. When Harry hands him the book, it’s heavy. Eggsy has to hold it with both hands and rest it across his thighs.

“What would you put together?” Harry asks after watching Eggsy for a few moments in silence.

“Er….” Most of the swatches are of similar neutral shades and subtle patterns. He honestly has no idea how to differentiate between some of them. “How about this for the suit,” he points to a brown wool blend at random because it’s nice to touch, “and this for a tie,” he dares as he flips the pages of the book to the silks and points to a deep golden hued metallic one that catches his eye first. “How’d I do?”

“Not bad,” Harry says diplomatically. “This brown is often a more conservative colour, so maybe a tie in a more traditional fabric such as…” His fingers find a deep golden silk square. “This would be a good look for you. Maybe paired with a dark green waistcoat and pocket square for a modern touch. The young can get away with things like that.”

“Too bad I don’t have much use for a suit,” Eggsy says wistfully as his fingers skim over the fabric panels again, just ghosting over the edges of Harry’s. “Especially nothing as nice as this.”

“No? What is it that you do when you’re not a guest of this fine establishment?”

Eggsy supposes this question was long in coming, though he still dreads answering it all the same, and yet fair is fair. “Gymnastics.”

“Really?” Harry’s surprise doesn’t stem from disbelief so much as delight. It makes something within Eggsy relax just a little bit more.

“I was on track to qualify for Rio and then this thing cropped up.” Eggsy waves a cavalier hand at the long, crimson filled tubes currently pushing and pulling his blood to and from his body. “So...that dream sorta didn’t pan out.”

“Not something one can simply defer?”

“Not really.” And of Harry’s questioning look, he further explains, “I’m twenty-four. Getting to be long in the tooth for a pro-gymnast,” Eggsy says softly. “This was just about my last shot.”

There isn’t, thankfully, pity on Harry’s face, just a quiet acceptance as he turns his head, putting his face even closer to Eggsy’s. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

It’s so painfully intimate that Eggsy begins word vomiting all over the place. “You know what’s funny? I was trying for London before that, and on the way to semi-finals, a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed right into us. Absolutely shattered my leg.” Dean fucking Anthony Baker had also managed to kill his father and almost caused his mum to lose what would later turn out to be his baby sister, but even in his deluge of words, Eggsy knows better than to tell Harry that. “Bloody time trying to get back from it. Was gonna be a real good underdog story for this year, but I suppose someone up there really don’t want me competing.”

“If it’s not too invasive,” Harry starts with a degree of hesitation, “may I ask what you have?”

“Polycystic Kidney Disease.” Eggsy could recite it in his sleep along with all its symptoms, treatments, and causes. “It’s genetic. I was diagnosed awhile ago and was managing it, more or less, without too many issues until….”

“Kidney failure,” Harry surmises.

“Something like...eighty, ninety percent?” Eggsy hazards a guess, scrunching up a brow. “So now it’s me and good ol’...oh, what shall we call her, Delilah? Delilah the Dialysis Machine, I like that. So it’s me and Delilah until a new kidney comes my way. Something tells me I ain’t very high on the list though.”

“You’re keeping in good spirits,” Harry says admirably, studying him like he’s seeing him for the very first time. “Were I in your shoes, I suspect wouldn’t be accepting it with half as much grace.”

“I think I got the worst of it out of my system already.” Eggsy smiles ruefully. “Shoulda seen me about a week and a half ago. My mum gave me about forty-eight hours to sulk and then kicked my arse and told me to pull myself together.”

Before Harry can reply, they are interrupted by the door opening and a tall, balding, and somewhat severe looking man in a lab coat popping his head in. “Are you pestering the patients now, Harry? Harassing me is not enough?”

In contrast to the man’s scowl, Harry’s paints a pleasant smile across his mouth. “Ah, Merlin. You found me despite my best efforts.”

“I was waiting for you outside, but then I heard the staff speak of seeing a strange man climbing in through one of the windows. I knew it had to be you.”

Instead of acknowledging the whole humiliating incident, Harry turns to Eggsy. “Eggsy, this is Merlin, the friend I was telling you about. As you can see, I didn’t make him up. Merlin, this is Eggsy, a current patient at your place of work.”

“Hello, Eggsy,” Merlin nods, his face clearing up into something approaching grudgingly cordial. “If this one’s bothering you too much, just say the word and I’ll have security throw him out. Better yet, I’ll take him off your hands right now.”

“I think that’s Merlin’s not so subtle hint that I ought to be leaving,” Harry says as Eggsy slides the book back into his lap.

It never feels like enough time, but Eggsy just gamely smiles anyway because he’s had a lot of practise. “Hello. Nice to finally put a face to a name.” Harry’s told him so much about his friend and already within a few seconds of seeing them interact, Eggsy can tell that Harry’s and Merlin’s relationship is one of those built upon mutual insults and fierce loyalty. “Been meaning to ask, and seeing how you’re here now: how’d you get the name Merlin anyway?”

In response, Merlin’s expression becomes positively pained. “You get the name ‘Merlin’ when your parents meet each other on an ex-patriot commune in Marrakesh. Any further explanations would require that you buy me a drink.”

“Just the one, lightweight that he is,” Harry quips.

“Some of us,” Merlin scowls again, glaring at Harry, “have careers that don’t allow us to be functioning alcoholics.”

 

_____

 

Many times, they just quietly sit next to each other on the cot, filling in their respective crosswords like they’re an old married couple having a nice Sunday lie-in. It’s thoroughly enjoyable, even if it’s only for ten or twenty minutes tops. Those scant few minutes sustain Eggsy for the long, tedious hours after.

Finally, though, Eggsy can’t take the suspense anymore. “Why the crossword?”

And without missing a beat nor looking up from his paper like he was expecting the question since the whole time, Harry says, “I like to think it keeps my mind sharp.”

Eggsy frowns. “Why not...oh, I dunno. Sudoku?”

“Because with numbers I only think about maths. Words invoke memories, and lines from literature and culture, of which I am far more appreciative. Why do you do the crossword?”

“I was inspired by you,” Eggsy answers honestly. “But I’m terrible at it.”

“I wasn’t all that good at it either when I first started. It takes practise to get into the mindset.”

“Yet you fill it all out every time. What do you do if you get some wrong?” Eggsy asks, nodding to the pen in Harry’s hand. “Do you even get anything wrong?”

Harry glances down at his crossword, nearly filled out without a single cross out. “Well, if I’ve horribly buggered it all, I’ll start filling in the boxes with dirty words and call it a day.”

Eggsy huffs out a note of scoffing laughter and glances down at Harry’s crossword. Only, he starts noticing how some of the answers, in fact, could not possibly be the answers to the clues they relate to unless the crossword’s a lot more naughty than Eggsy ever realised. He looks back up at Harry incredulously. “You’re a bit funny sometimes, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” A pause. Harry doesn’t look up. “Is that something you mind terribly?”

Another fork in the road. “Nah.” In spite of the cool temperature they keep these rooms at, a warm flush suffuses his skin. ”Kinda like it, actually.”

 

_____

 

“Of two minds. Eleven letters.”

“Ambivalence.”

“Ahhh. Thanks. Huh.”

“What?”

“I been using that word wrong all my life, but everyone around me thinks it means what I thought it meant anyway so I guess it don’t matter.”

“So you’re just going to keep using the word incorrectly because everyone else thinks it’s correct?”

“Yeah, ain’t that the whole point of language?”

“...fair point.”

“I can see you are feeling ambivalent about this conversation.”

“Go back to your crossword, Eggsy.”

 

_____

 

In fact, Harry never asks for a chair, and Eggsy never offers to get him one. He always opts to sit on the cot next to Eggsy, their sides lining up together, almost touching, close enough for Eggsy to always be aware of Harry’s warmth, the inherent pull of his body just begging him to lean against it. Eggsy always resists at first, but as the minutes wear on, he finds himself practically plastered against Harry’s side.

Whatever it is they have, this shared time together, a concurrent existence in the same bit of time and space, goes well, or at least better than Eggsy would have ever expected. Harry is a true gentleman, lovely and surprising and a little bit strange and more than a bit generous. He can’t deny he’s absolutely gone for the man, and what had begun as a bit of intrigue has now evolved into full on infatuation.

One afternoon, they sit side by side together on the cot, and a sudden loud crack pierces the air. Eggsy whips his head towards the window, but recognises the low, rumbling follow-through of a backfiring car. It had given him a jolt, sent his heart racing, but even now his pulse is already starting to tread water back to a normal baseline.

But when he glances back at Harry, the man’s as pale as a sheet.

“You alright?” Eggsy asks, only to receive no indication his question was even heard at all. “Harry?”

No response but for Harry’s heightened breathing. Fine tremours wrack his frame. Eggsy can feel the subtle vibration of them through his own body. It unnerves him so much that he hesitantly stretches out a hand and lays it on Harry’s shoulder.

It works like an electric jolt. Harry flinches so badly, he jerks Eggsy’s hand off of him and nearly moves the entire cot as he sucks in a sharp breath, but his gaze finally clears and focuses Eggsy. In the span of seconds, he grows years older, shoulders sinking, face haggard. “I do...apologise, Eggsy,” he says, voice still thin and not nearly as smoothly confident as it has always been. He struggles to say something more, opening and closing his mouth, blinking.

“Hey,” Eggsy says, raising his hand to lay it over Harry’s shoulder again before he slides it down the length of Harry’s arm, pries open his tightly clenched fist, and weaves his fingers through Harry’s to grip his hand. “It’s fine. We’re in London, and the only people here are us and Delilah, but she’s a bit of alright.”

Harry grips Eggsy’s hand back and laughs despite himself, leaning into Eggsy’s body as much as Eggsy has ever leaned into his.

 

_____

 

“I’m afraid this current stay in London is coming to an end,” Harry tells him one day. “I’ve got to see some clients abroad for a few weeks, probably longer.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says, striving for a neutral tone to mask the immediate sense of dismay he feels at the news because he’s not some petulant child that was ever owed any of Harry’s time in the first place. “Well. When do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Harry says regretfully. “It was all somewhat last minute, but that’s often nature of high-touch clients.”

He should have expected this, Eggsy knows. It’s not as if Harry hadn’t warned him before. But the days had gone by and Harry faithfully returned for each one of them, and Eggsy had taken this long, uninterrupted stretch for granted. “Guess I’ll see you when you get back?” Because the sad truth of it was that he most likely still would be here.

(It occurs to Eggsy that if Harry wanted to ghost him, now would be a perfect opportunity. Not that he thinks Harry is that sort of bloke, but improbability does not preclude impossibility.)

But Harry gives him an earnest look. “It occurs to me that outside of this room, we’ve never had further contact, have we? I would very much like to stay in touch with you if you’ll allow it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, then hastily tries to temper his surprise with nonchalance. “I mean, yeah. Of course. I’d like that.”

“Good.” Harry smiles.

 

_____

 

The first text comes in at 1.33 in the morning. Eggsy had only been sleeping fitfully, not quite able to get comfortable enough to sink into a true restful sleep, so the buzzing of his mobile is a welcome distraction.

When he unlocks his screen, he’s greeted to the sight of Harry’s attempt at a selfie, though he’s cut off most of his head in favour of capturing the breathtaking view behind him of a wide river gorge with tall, sloping green mountains and a wide, curving blue river snaked between them. The comment appended below reads: _Columbia River Gorge_. _Bit of sightseeing before I’m off to client’s organic wine vineyard._

 _Pretty scenery + wine?_ Eggsy types back. _Terribly horribly jealous._

 _We all have our crosses to bear,_ comes the droll reply.

Harry’s pictures flow in steadily through the weeks. The slow rolling beaches of Goa. Capetown's bluffs. A lively market in Valencia. A lush, steamy rainforest in Costa Rica. The vivid lights of Shanghai. Sometimes they are photos that are smaller and more intimate in scope. A glass of Grappa in Milan. A beautiful, colourful plant on Hilo that Eggsy doesn’t know the name of (which Harry admits he doesn’t know either). Harry looking jet lagged in his neutrally styled hotel room when Eggsy asks for a photo of himself.

 

_____

 

It’s not that Eggsy doesn’t have friends, but the pursuit of one’s Olympic dreams came at a cost. Hours spent every day in training at the gym as opposed to drinking at the pub with the boys had strained his friendships with his two best mates growing up, and it’s no one’s fault, really. It’s just how it is: a few traded texts here and there, talk of plans to meet up one evening or so, without anything ever manifesting.

Yet after the car accident, Jamal and Ryan had faithfully shown up and kept Eggsy company in hospital. They stayed with him for the funeral. They kept his mind off his losses and let him grieve during the long, frustrating weeks of waiting for his leg to heal and then the even longer, challenging climb back to recovery.

And then Eggsy started training for 2016 and the whole vicious cycle started again.

So it’s with no small degree of surprise when Jamal and Ryan pop into his dialysis session a week after he’s got his new, more permanent, stent put in, bearing nervous smiles and shuffling feet. They keep an uncertain distance, like Eggsy has become some delicate creature.

“Hey, coz,” Jamal says, gaze darting to the tubes running up Eggsy’s neck and his bandaged up arm. “What luck, yeah?”

“Right? Who did I piss off in a previous life?” Eggsy agrees.

The ensuing silence swiftly becomes awkward.

“Oi, look at this!” Ryan calls out after poking about in the cupboards and drawers. When Jamal and Eggsy look to him, he’s unearthed a box of latex gloves.

It’s completely juvenile and a waste of what’s probably some pretty scarce resources, but Eggsy wouldn’t change a minute of Ryan turning the gloves into hand-shaped balloons and chucking them at their faces because it serves as the ice-breaker they needed.

It’s an all-out war then, and by the end of it (Jamal and Eggsy ganging up on Ryan to pelt him with as many of his glove balloons as possible), the connection’s sparked back up to life, and the conversation is as easy and free-flowing as it’s ever been.

He won’t lose this again, Eggsy thinks. Not only because there will be no more Olympic games to train for, but because his mates are mint. These are some of the valuable things in life to hold onto. They’re some of the only things he has left.

 

_____

 

Harry circles the world and back and keeps up a light stream of chatter throughout it all. His timezone jumps mean his messages arrive randomly at all hours of the day, always a delightful surprise. They keep Eggsy’s dull and dreary hours in his little room with Delilah colourful, and Eggsy finds himself cycling back through each image he’s carefully saved to his phone, trying to imagine what it would be like, being there. Being there _with Harry_.

One night, Harry messages him again, though it’s not with another stunning photo of some other exotic, far-off location but a question.

_Halfway mark achieved, but there’s a light at the end of this tunnel. I’ve got one evening to spend in London before I’m off again and I’ve missed our daily conversations. Would you like to have dinner when I’m back in town?_

It takes a few moments for Eggsy to reply because he sits back, closes his eyes, and relishes the lightheaded, chest fluttery feeling that, for once, is not the result of dialysis.

_That’d be v. v. nice._

 

_____

 

“Well, well, well,” Eggsy greets Roxy when her name shows up on his caller ID. “If it ain’t the Gymnast Queen herself. How’s Rio? Haven’t had much time to catch the replays.” Mostly because the only place he can even watch is at the pub, and that’s pretty much out of the question these days.

“Well,” Roxy says, drawing it out, and in the beat of suspenseful silence, Eggsy can hear some sort of loud music on in the background along with the cheerful shouts of other athletes in the village. She strives for her usual sharp, clipped enunciation, but Eggsy’s known her a long time. She’s practically bouncing off the walls. “I’ve got some news.”

“Yeah? Come on then, don’t keep us waiting.”

Bless her, Roxy never leaves him hanging for long. “I’ve qualified for all-arounds!”

“Oh, Rox, that’s fucking fantastic!” Eggsy grins so hard his cheeks hurt even though Roxy can’t see it. “I mean, completely unsurprising because you deserve it, but I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you, Eggs. Rio’s lovely, not the unfinished nightmare we were all fearing, though I’m a bit put out that I won’t be able to hit the beaches.” Roxy audibly sighs as her voice grows wistful. “I miss you. I wish you got to be here with me. You deserve this too, you know.”

For the most part, Eggsy doesn’t try to dwell on lost opportunities too much. That way, he knows from personal experience, lies an addictingly dark path that’s hard to come back from. But in talking to Rox again, who’s about to embark on what is sure to be one of the most exciting highlights of her career, it hits him with all the ferocity of a cold, sharp draught. They were supposed to be there together, Britain’s top gymnasts, some of their most promising to compete in decades. They had talked it over for so many nights, what they would do, what they would say, alternate routines in case they buggered something up mid-performance. Now Roxy’s about to cross the finish line and all Eggsy can do is watch from a very far distance behind her, permanently waylaid.

He swallows the thick lump in his throat and forces his voice to remain even and energetic. “Know that I’m here cheering you on, love. Watch out for Aliya. Get me Simone’s autograph, yeah?”

“Will do, but only if you keep your chin up too, right? You’ll get through this. My god, we’ve all got two kidneys. Someone has to have one to spare.”

“Starting to look into my black market options now,” he jokes and hopes it’s come off a lot better than how it sounded to his own ears.

“Once I get back on English soil, I’m coming to see you so we can have a good ol’ cry together,” Roxy tells him in her most determined tone. It’s the voice she once used when she was barely able to put weight on her leg after a severe ankle sprain and still managed to win the women’s nationals before London. “Remember those? It’s been too long since we’ve had one. Especially when accompanied by two sleeves of hobnobs.”

“I hope you’ll have some shiny new medals to show me. You’ve got a real good shot, Rox.”

“You know I’ll try. For you, Eggs.”

“Nah, Rox,” Eggsy says softly as he stares at the deep little crescent-shaped indentations his fingernails have made in the meat of his palm. “Do it for you.”

 

_____

 

Harry offered to pick him up by cab, but Eggsy said he’d be fine with simply meeting Harry at the restaurant, partly because he doesn’t want to put Harry out too much, partly because his mum still doesn’t know about them yet, and partly because Harry doesn’t really need see Eggsy’s shitty estate flat, even if he’s had to have sussed out by now that Eggsy’s pockets don’t exactly run deep.

Eggsy tries to look up the restaurant Harry’s sent him the address for, but aside from the fact that it’s one of those modern fusion type things, he has no idea if he’ll be arriving there embarrassingly underdressed or not, even if he’s got on the nicest clothing he owns and a scarf that attempts to cover up the tubes taped against the side of his neck

By the time he rounds the corner of the block and spots the restaurant, he learns that all his worrying had been for naught. The neighbourhood is nice but not _too nice_. The restaurant is decidedly very homely. Eggsy feels the tension bleed from his spine for all of a minute before he realises the figure standing in front of the building is none other than Harry himself.

The sight of him after so long without causes Eggsy’s steps to falter. It’s like seeing him for the first time, admiring again all those details that made Eggsy fall head over heels before: the height, the poise, the faintly weary lines of his face, the gentle warmth in his eyes, the way the corners of his mouth always turn up in bemusement. All of that with the added strangeness and excitement for the fact that they aren’t meeting in a cheerless clinic room but out in London for a date.

Harry still wears a suit, but it’s a less formal one this time, though Eggsy couldn’t be sure he could say why. Lack of tie, maybe, or the way Harry lets his suit jacket remain open and unbuttoned, revealing a trim waist. He’s noticeably more tan, his hair has been left less styled than usual, resulting in a surprisingly fluffy set of curls atop his head, like he’s spent a day at the beach.

“Travel agrees with you, I think,” Eggsy says when he stands before Harry.

“And being out in the world suits you,” Harry says, giving Eggsy a look that makes him simply want to just stare into Harry’s eyes forever before he offers Eggsy a gentlemanly arm. “Shall we go in?”

And then it all goes downhill from there.

It starts when they first sit down and the waiter pours them their waters, which Harry immediately takes advantage of by raising a glass to his lips.

Eggsy stares at his sweating glass and can practically envision how refreshingly cool it would taste. It makes him realise how so very thirsty he is just about all of the time. His tongue always sticks to the roof his of his dry mouth. His fingers twitch to simply reach out and down the whole thing in one go.

“I think it best if you get this away from me,” he says as he pushes his glass towards Harry and further out of reach. And when Harry looks at him quizzically, he’s forced to explain, “I can’t have many fluids. The—”

“Oh, that's right.” A look of horrified embarrassment flashes across Harry’s face as he immediately sets down his glass like he’d just drunk poison. “Let me flag down the waiter to remove these from sight.”

Now it’s Eggsy’s turn to be horrified. “I mean, _you_ don’t have to limit yourself on my account. We both shouldn’t be thirsty. Cos, to be honest, Jesus, I’d slaughter a camel and drain it right now if I could and that sounded a lot more disgusting than I had meant it to.”

“Nonsense.” Harry gives him a placating smile before flagging down a waiter to have him whisk the waters away. “My goal here wasn’t to make you uncomfortable. Quite the reverse, in fact.”

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy still says.

“I promise you, it’s fine,” Harry assures, reaching out across the table to warmly cover Eggsy’s hand.

And it is, at least until they go to put in their orders and Eggsy finds himself asking a hundred questions and making a hundred more modifications until he’s whittled down one of the rich dishes to something dully familiar: a boiled plain chicken breast and undressed side salad, all with the new addition of a subtly exasperated waiter.

“This wasn’t one of my most thought-out plans,” Harry says quietly once the waiter leaves.

“Trust me, it would have been like this everywhere,” Eggsy says. He had meant it to be reassuring, but as he speaks, he glumly realises it’s true. Even the simple pleasure of dining out is largely denied to him.

Harry certainly isn’t reassured, if anything, the disappointment and guilt deepen his frown, so Eggsy rushes to add, all without thinking, “It’s the company that’s most important, yeah? I’d choke down sand if I could see you.”

Silence descends in the wake of his words.

Eggsy mentally rewinds what he said and feels his skin go hot and prickly in mortification.

But when he manages to look at Harry without managing to cringe too badly, Harry isn’t cross or disgusted. No, he regards Eggsy with so much heat in his eyes that the fire under Eggsy’s skin starts warming him up not with embarrassment but something else entirely. “And I’d sit in the world’s ugliest car park outside a health clinic, every single day, just to see you.”

The feelings stirring in Eggsy's chest are enough to keep him afloat for the remainder of dinner, transforming even the overcooked and dry chicken into something palatable (or, at least, completely irrelevant: he finishes about three bites before his throat closes up and declares him done with eating for the day).

And when they finish their meal and opt for a leisurely post-dinner stroll and people-watch down the rain-slick streets of Camden town until, in a fit of boldness fuelled by the immense feeling brewing in his chest that makes him near fit to bursting, Eggsy suddenly turns to Harry in the middle of some story about one of his overseas clients and backs him up against the nearest building, and Harry shuts up and lets him. When Eggsy looks up at him, so close, Harry just gazes back at him fondly, and it’s an easy drift forward until their lips meet. Harry’s are soft, Eggsy are embarrassingly rough and flaking, but he soon forgets it when Harry open his mouth further, raises a hand to cup his jaw on the side that doesn’t have the line in, and then slides it over the back of his neck to pull him in closer.

Eggsy doesn’t know how or when it was decided that their night should continue. It was probably him, to be honest, because he’s always gone after what he’s wanted with an unusual degree of intensity. He’s had to. You don’t get to be a kid from the estate and train to be an Olympic-level athlete without extraordinary focus and determination. The sheer cost alone would have stopped many, but somehow his mum and dad always pulled it together for him in the end, believing in him.

They end up at Harry’s nice little townhouse, though Eggsy only barely registers the somewhat stale air and thin layer of dust on the shelves as they try to navigate Harry’s narrow little stairs to his bedroom while removing whatever clothes are easiest to access and not separating their lips and hands from some part of each other’s body for any span of time longer than a second.

He’s so lost in the revelation of Harry’s body, all the long lean lines of him beneath the finery he wears, the faint traces of his cologne on his neck, the drag of his fingers through his loose curls, so lost in simply _wanting_ Harry that he it isn’t until Harry has slipped a hand between their bodies to stroke him, to keep stroking him, that he realises he’s not hard. Not even so much as a semi.

“Shit.” Like someone's thrown a bucket of cold water on him, Eggsy violently recoils from Harry's lips and hands and practically slams his head against the back of the mattress, wishing he could knock himself out and conveniently wipe his memories of this humiliating moment.

“It’s okay,” Harry says as he gently eases off of Eggsy and tries to collect his breath against his shoulder. Eggsy can still feel Harry’s erection pressed hopefully against his side like a taunt. “Your body is under a lot of stress right now.”

“I’m twenty-four,” Eggsy huffs, feeling like his cheeks are positively flaming. “This ain’t exactly the problem I thought I’d be having right now.” He turns his head to look meet Harry’s eyes. Harry’s cheeks are flushed. His lips are still red and swollen. Other than that, he’s practically near composed as ever. It’s not quite the fucked out look he’d been hoping to see on Harry’s face from this angle. “I can still, you know, take care of that.” He waves a hand at Harry’s cock. It’s the least he can do for being his own fucking cockblock. Then he has to shamefully admit, “Maybe just with my hand, though, ‘cos my mouth’s a bit dry.”

But Harry just shakes his head like he’s letting Eggsy down easy. “No, it’s alright. Perhaps it’s best if we just go to bed? Would you like to spend the night? I have an early flight but you can stay as long as you like.”

Now that the immediate lust and rush of heat has all but petered out, Eggsy starts to feel self conscious. His body has lost so much of its definition without the gruelling training and meals he needs to maintain it, plus with all the stupid fluid his body retains now, he’s looking a bit like a water balloon nowadays anyway. There’s the central line that pinches at his neck, the capped off stents dangling limply against his skin much like what he’s got going on between his legs at the moment. A ring of bruising still marks the insertion point. The arm with the stent in it aches. He's probably overused it.

Christ, he wonders how Harry can even get it up for him at all.

“I think I best be going,” Eggsy declares before abruptly sitting up, trying to keep his voice unbothered through the sickly crawl of self-disgust that suddenly envelops him. “Hadn’t really planned this one out either, and mum always needs help with Daisy in the mornings.”

He avoids looking at Harry while he goes to gather up his clothes, trying to tug them on as quickly as possible even if it results in him putting on his own shirt backwards and inside out and he gives up his search for a missing sock entirely.

“Eggsy....” he hears Harry call out, but he’s too busy rushing down the stairs to find his other trainer, only getting it half on before deciding it's good enough.

“It’s fine!” Eggsy calls back up to the shadowy figure at the top landing. “Look, I’ll text you later, yeah? Get some rest, you’ve got a long trip ahead of you.”

He’s out the door before he can hear Harry’s reply.

 

_____

 

It’s Harry who texts him first though. From under the covers of his bed where he's managed to roll himself up into a miserable burrito, Eggsy glances down when his mobile buzzes, sees Harry’s name, and doesn’t read the rest of the message before setting his phone face down on the nightstand. It continues to buzz periodically, text and phone call, but Eggsy just ignores them all.

He has one framed photo of father that sits on his nightstand next to his phone. It’s one his mum took after his win at regionals. His father’s got his arm slung around him and Eggsy is holding up his trophy and grinning so widely, he looks manic. But his father isn’t even looking at the camera, he’s looking down at Eggsy with such a soft but unmistakable expression of pride that Eggsy can remember the feeling of it even now.

 _You were brilliant, Eggs!_ He remembers his father saying before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. _I’m so proud of you, my talented, amazing boy._

And of course because all roads lead to Rome, his thoughts inevitably turn to _that day_. He remembers his father meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror of the car. _Gonna smash it today, Eggs?_

 _Oi, Lee, stop it. He don’t need more pressure_ , his mum had admonished, lightly slapping at his father’s shoulder.

 _What? It ain’t pressure_ , his father had argued. _It’s just a simple statement of fact. My boy is gonna absolutely slaughter the competition, ain’t that right?_

It had devolved into playful bickering and then his father leaning across the cup holders to steal a kiss from his mum’s lips in a gesture that never failed to make her melt, and then the intersection lights had turned green and his father had started the car forward and the driver’s window had been blown open in a shower of glass and the last thing Eggsy had seen was his father’s body disappearing under a tonne of crushed metal.

“Sorry I fucked it up again,” he tells the static image of his father. “Least you ain’t around to see it though. Break your heart, it would.”

As if hearing his words, his phone buzzes yet again and Eggsy sighs, finally stretching out to retrieve it. He unlocks it and pulls up Harry’s lines of texts.

_Eggsy, I wanted to see how you were. I’m sorry for the way things went last night, not because of anything you couldn’t help, but because of the way it made you feel. Know that you haven’t put me off. I still want to see you, talk to you, be with you._

_Eggsy, I’ve just landed. I’m going to call._

_[MIssed Call]_

_[Missed Call]_

_[1 Voicemail]_

_Please pick up._

_If you want, I can give you time, but just answer me now and let me know if you’re alright._

He wonders where Harry is in the world right now, probably somewhere glamourous and breathtaking and completely befitting him because that is Harry’s life: travelling to exotic locations, meeting beautiful people, and experiencing the wonders of the world while Eggsy remains here, travelling between his dreary little bedroom to his dreary little cot at the clinic, back and forth, day in and day out, for what is likely to be months, even years to come. Maybe even the rest of his life, for however long that would be.

And he’s so tired.

Feeling empty, Eggsy slowly types out a painstaking reply, reads it over twice, and tries to breathe through the suffocated feeling compressing his chest as he hits send.

_Hi Harry. Sorry for the worry. I just needed time to think things through. I’ve been living an illusion for awhile. I think it was supposed to be hope but I’ve got to face reality now. We both got such different lives and I don’t see either one of us able to bridge that gap. I think it's best if we don't see each other anymore. I’ll always be grateful for your company during those long hours. You brought a lot of light to my life at a dark time. Xx Eggsy_

He turns off his phone entirely after that and tosses it somewhere, hearing it clatter as it falls into the space between his bed and the wall.

 

_____

 

The weeks follow with the same kind of numbing consistency. Eggsy wakes up, goes to the clinic, naps through his sessions with Delilah and the kitten poster, comes home, goes to bed, and wakes up to do it all again. He doesn’t bother with the crossword anymore so all the yellowing papers just begin to pile up in one corner of his room until his mum gets fed up and bins them.

He puts all of his energy and concentration into his little sister, whom he prays won’t inherit even a tenth of the shit he’s had to deal with.

He occasionally hangs out with Jamal and Ryan, though their options are severely limited. Usually they just end up at the park so they can mess about with a football while Eggsy sits on the side and watches. When they suggest heading to the pub after, he wistfully declines. He barely got to drink when he was in training and now that he’s not, it’s for reasons that lead him to still being unable to knock one back. Bloody shame, that.

He hasn’t been able to catch Roxy since she medaled for beam and bars, silver and bronze. She’s been too busy making the parade of talk shows and requests for interviews, wheeling and dealing for sponsorships and the like. She’s got one more Olympics in her, at least.

Every day, every week goes down in similar monotonous manner until they all begin to blur together.

And then, one day, something changes.

He’s woken up not because his alarm’s going off but because his mum’s sitting next to him on his bed, gently shaking him awake. When he blinks away the sleep from his eyes, he finally notices she’s been crying.

“What is it?” he asks, alarmed.

“Just got off the phone with the hospital,” his mum whispers, her voice cracking halfway through. “They got a match for you, babe. You’re getting a kidney.”

 

_____

 

He can’t seem to calm his nerves on the way to hospital and Daisy's bawling doesn't help. Funnily enough, he remembers being preternaturally calm on all his previous trips. With a start, he realises that maybe it’s because he’s never gone to hospital for anything _good_ before. It doesn’t help that his mother keeps sneaking side glances at him, bursting into a fresh bout of tears each time.

To distract himself, he thinks about the kidney he’ll be getting. A foreign organ from another human being that will be rehoused in Eggsy’s body instead. When he considers that, the whole notion seems strange and unsettling. What was that person like? Were they now dead and Eggsy’s just profiting from that tragedy? Would they resent their organs going to some washed up Olympic-wannabe instead of someone actually more useful?

When he arrives at hospital and Eggsy is getting prepped for surgery, he is surprised to learn that the donor of the kidney he’s getting isn’t deceased at all but had anonymously volunteered.

“Why?” Eggsy asks, utterly stupefied. “Why would someone want to give up their kidney for the likes of me?”

“We dunno, babe. Let’s just be grateful though,” his mum urges.

But it feels _wrong_. He wants to back away. Every cell in him is shrinking back. Bile creates a bitter taste at the back of his throat as his mouth, sharp and acidic in his dry mouth.

“I can’t,” he says suddenly, trying to swallow down the fear clogging up his throat and almost gagging. “I can’t accept it. It would be...a waste. I can’t just let someone live with only half their kidneys without knowing what they’ve done.”

“Eggsy!” his mum says, aghast.

“Mr Unwin,” the doctor says calmly, “Know that people lead perfectly happy, healthy lives with just one kidney. Your donor’s quality of life will not change.”

“There are people out there more deserving of it than me!” he finds himself insisting in a raised voice, and even he doesn’t understand why he’s not keeping his mouth shut and simply accepting his turn of luck. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t trust it.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t think he deserves it.

“Give it to someone else. Someone who will go on to, I dunno, win the fucking Nobel prize or something! They’ll make more of their life than me. Go on. I refuse to accept it. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry.” The world begins to narrow. He finds it difficult to breathe. He shakes his head and has to turn his back to them, facing the dim corner of the pre-surgical room so no one can see the sudden tears that have sprung up in his eyes.

It’s very quiet then. He doesn't know when he becomes aware of it, the muffling blanket of silence. Maybe his mum and sister have left with the doctor, or maybe it is because Eggsy is concentrating so hard on swallowing back the noises that want to crawl out of his dry throat and wiping away the tears that have spilled over.

He jumps out of his skin when a hand falls heavily to his shoulder. “Eggsy.”

Eggsy whips around and crashes into the wall, staring wide eyed at Harry.

Harry, who hasn’t seen in over a month.

Harry, who should be god knows where in the world right now, asking posh clients to pick out their favourite fabrics or knocking back flutes of expensive champagne with colleagues.

Harry, who is here with him now, in a rich burgundy dressing gown of all things, and beneath that, a hospital gown.

“What are you doing?” Eggsy asks him. “Why are you here? Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“Nothing’s happened,” Harry assures him. “Eggsy, take the kidney. It’s rare enough to find a good match much less an adequate one. Another one may not come along for years.”

“What?” Eggsy blinks. “How did you…?”

And then it dawns on him.

“You. It’s your kidney,” Eggsy whispers incredulously.

“I had hoped you wouldn’t find out, actually," Harry says quietly, actually looking ashamed for wanting to give up one of his organs. "I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything. But then I heard there was a bit of hesitance in accepting something you feel you don’t deserve.”

“Harry, I can’t accept your kidney! What the fuck. You barely know me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You’ve told me enough to know that there is still so much life ahead of you, Eggsy,” Harry says, stepping forward to take hold of his limp hands. “And that you deserve a chance to explore it. To live it. I want you to have that opportunity. You deserve it.”

Eggsy stares down at their joined hands like he can’t understand them. “I pretty much told you to bugger off after embarrassing myself with you. Why would you do this? You’ve got your fabulous life seeing the world. I’m just some fucking chav.”

“Because I am hopelessly smitten with you,” Harry says gently, causing Eggsy to finally look up into his soft, fond expression, the one where his eyes shine and the corners of his mouth turn up gently. “And I want to share my world with you, so I suppose that starts with sharing a kidney.”

“Harry,” Eggsy says, and then finds he can’t say anything else. Tears spring from his eyes anew as Harry draws him into an embrace.

“Take the kidney, Eggsy,” Harry murmurs into his hair while gently rubbing his back. “Please let me share this with you.”

Eggsy can’t help the sob into Harry’s chest when he tries to exhale as Harry’s tenderness utterly dismantles every hard-earned wall of self-reliance he’s put up over over the years, and all the fucking _misery_ that they were keeping at bay.

He clings to Harry, desperately clutching at his gown, and just lets go. Harry holds him all through it, accepting it. Accepting him.

Eggsy doesn’t know how long it is until his ugly crying turns into shaky gasps and he feels completely drained of moisture and energy and, refreshingly, the weight of his sadness. He’s only aware of Harry’s steadily beating heart from where he lays his head against Harry’s chest and Harry’s warm, strong arms encircling him. They’re rocking gently, side to side. He feels safe.

“Okay,” Eggsy says against Harry’s body. “Okay.”

Harry pulls back only enough to lean down and kiss his tear-stained lips.

 

_____

 

Sound returns first, beeping every so often, some other mechanical function, murmurs. It's difficult to wake up and pry his heavy eyelids open. His body feels like a cold, hollowed out cavern around whose outer edges, he knows, there is pain and swelling and tenderness, but within, here, a decent buffer in exchange for a world smeared in sight and sound.

But when Eggsy blinks and the objects in his vision finally clear up, it is Harry's tired, wan face that he sees first from the wheelchair he's parked beside Eggsy's bed. He's back in his dressing gown. There is strain around his eyes, traces of discomfort and pain, undoubtedly from having an organ so freshly shorn from his body.

Eggsy can't find it within himself to form any sensible string of words. There are possibly no words that could express the depth of his feelings right now anyway.

He manages to turn his palm up in wordless invitation, and is gratified when it is filled with Harry's hand.

 

_____

 

They have matching crescent-shaped scars, though Harry’s got quite a few more all over his body. They each have a story behind them, but Harry only shares some of them when Eggsy touches them and prompts him like they are clues to a crossword. Those other scars, when Eggsy asks, put a haunted expression in his eyes that Eggsy never wants to see again.

Harry isn’t ready to share those. Not yet.

Eggsy shows Harry his scars from the car accident. The surgical ones to put metal pins in his leg. The ones from where glass and metal had impaled his body. The ones on the back of his hands where he tried to drag his unconscious mum out of the car and scraped them all up.

Many scars aren’t even visible on Harry’s body, but Eggsy thinks that in time he’ll come to know them too just as Harry will come to know his. They are beautiful because they are Harry’s.

But Eggsy’s favourite scar will always be the one whose story he knows the most intimately. He loves knowing that there’s a part of Harry that lives inside him, sustains him. He loves how Harry’s hand inevitably finds its twin on Eggsy’s body, tracing the ridged skin when he’s gently guiding Eggsy through a crowded street or when they’re making love or when they're sitting on the sofa watching old films.

He loves to trace his fingers and lips across that fresh pink line along Harry’s left flank beneath Venice’s moonlight, or Prague’s, or Kyoto’s. He wants to trace that scar beneath the moon of Tokyo in 2020, cheering Roxy on, and in Dubai when he launches his pop-up international parkour classes while Harry attends to the wardrobe of the royal family.

And as he's tracing it now while Harry sleeps next to him, he makes a promise to himself to keep tracing that scar as its colour fades and some of its rougher edges smooth away as it heals, tracking its progress beneath the moonlight of many more countries left to see, of many more experiences to have, and much more time left still to live and love.


End file.
